Tight Grip
by bitter-alisa
Summary: Shameless slashy PWP. Explicit slash, mentions of dom/sub relationship.


Okay, this one is very far out of what I usually write that I'm not even sure how to feel about this. My first attempt to write something along the lines of dom/sub relationship, and I am very uncertain of how it all turned out. I hope you will enjoy it though.

* * *

"I do it because I love you. You know that?"

I do.

It is always from love. It may not look like it, but it always is; the way he treats me like I'm some sort of a mixture between his personal property and a child who can't take care of himself, the way he disciplines me like a bad dog, it always means he loves me.

I know he needs this, he needs to be in charge, because being in full control of himself is just not enough, no; he has to control me too. It's one of his demons that make him believe that I am his, indivisible, unshared, fully and absolutely his. And I am more than fine with that.

Because I am his. I really, truly am.

It has never occurred to me that I am the one to give in to someone like that, to give him full control of my life, my personal safety, my pleasure. My pain.  
Because it is inseparable from pleasure. I probably could not even tell where one ends and the other begins, it is all mixed up, it all tears me into shreds when he has it his way, all the pain and the pleasure, all the raw emotions inside of me, ready to burst out and destroy me.

He never lets that happen. He makes me contain it. He helps me not to explode.

I need it too. I need him to rule over me, to hold me in place and tell me what to do, to _care _for me, in that fucked up way he does. Giving myself to him like that means trust. I trust him completely. It has taught me to, because I never really trusted anyone and especially myself, and now I don't need to try to put my trust in anyone anymore, because I have him.

I trust him completely.

All those times that I lay in his bed, kept in place, blindfolded, naked, vulnerable and exposed, I know what is going to happen. All my other senses scream to me, it is supposed to be a danger alert, this is how my body reacts to the situation, sweat making my skin slippery, more in fear than anything else, really. But I know I have nothing to be afraid of, except for the fact that he is not going to be pleased to find me all sweaty after he specifically ordered me to take a shower.

Sometimes he likes it the dirty way, both of us sweaty and flushed after the show, just like now; it is quick and sharp these times, both of us letting out the remains of the adrenaline from the fight. He doesn't bother with showers and handcuffs and an almost mandatory teasing, his own strength is enough to keep me in the exact place he wants me in, and even if I could squirm out, I don't.

He only tells me what to do the first time, and it is more of an intuitive command even then, but I don't need it to be repeated ever again.

He is pleased.

I get on my knees, pull down his ring trunks, and he's already ready for me, I have noticed that by the end of our match. He always has a lot of sexual frustration after matches, but nothing compares to those times we had just fought against each other.

I keep the eye contact almost all the way, I lean in especially slowly, just out of spite, just for the hell of it, sometimes I love to tease him like that, it is one of those small liberties I am actually entitled to. From the look he gives to me I understand that he is in a good mood. It is strange considering that I have just won the match against him for the first time, but it occurs to me that he is probably proud of me.

He cares for me in the weirdest ways possible.

I wrap my fingers around the base of his cock, lean in even more and trace my tongue along the slit.

"All of it," he grunts.

I say nothing. _Speak when spoken to_, this is one of the first things he has taught me, and I do exactly that, at least during sex, because there is no stopping my ranting on the day-to-day basis. He doesn't want to change who I am.

I grin fighting an impulse to mock his impatience.

He might allow me a bit of teasing, but a flat-out mockery is punishable. He pulls on my hair, and if I'm lucky, this is the least of punishment I'm going to receive for my disobedience and for not being able to guess what is it exactly what he wants.

I _know_ what he wants.

I am happy to oblige.

I was never the giving head type, I have never found that especially pleasurable for myself, but the years spent with him has taught me to care more about his sensations than my own. Because he is there to care about mine. He has also taught me how to do it the right way, the way _he _likes it, the way I have learnt to like it too. It was embarrassing at first, never knowing what to do or how to do it properly, but he was patient with me. He has deemed me worthy of teaching, although he has never bothered before – either someone is good from the start, or he just says "fuck it" and ends it all at that instant.  
He took his time with me because he loved me.

This is why I do my best. I want to know I deserve everything he has and will give me.

I take him deeper, relax my throat muscles, doing my best at deepthroating him. I'm not exactly good at this, but he knows and I know that it's the effort and enthusiasm that counts. I run my tongue along the underside of his cock, bobbing back and forth, feeling his balls start to tighten in my hand. He hisses and I hum, creating vibration that just sends him over the edge. I know it does, because it has the same effect on me.

He pulls back before coming, showing off immense self-control, and with a nod lets me get up from my knees. He leans in to kiss me, slowly and almost sweetly, no tongues involved, dry and chaste kiss, just before trailing down my neck and biting into my collarbone, and his hands are squeezing my ass at the same time.

I let out a tiny little moan which sounds more like a mewl, and I feel his lips curve into smile against my skin.

"You did well," he murmurs, still smiling. "Thank you."

My ever so tiny trunks disappear in no time, he positions me against the wall and takes a tiny step back to take a look at me. I can't help but to feel self-conscious still, no matter how many times he has said that I am perfect. Every time I dare to voice my negative opinion on my own physique, I get a very angry glance from him. How dare I think that he would fall for anything less than perfection?

He nods approvingly, even though I must be a pathetic sight, standing naked and painfully aroused in the empty locker room, staring beggingly at him. But for some reason he likes it.

"What do you want, Phillip?" He asks, voice low, when he lifts me up as if I was weightless and my legs wrap his waist.

It is a tricky question; he rarely is in such a permissive mood, and either he has something nasty planned, or he really is proud of my work in the ring.

I could ask for anything. No matter why he is allowing me to do so, it is all worth it in the end, but I ask for what I know he wants too.

"Fuck me."

"Fuck you _what_?" his grip around my cock gets a little tighter as he starts to slowly stroke it up and down.

"P-please," I breathe out.

"Speak in full sentences, Phillip," He orders, but his other hand is already working its way in my entrance, slowly stretching and making it ready for him to come.

"Please, Randall, fuck me." I know I have to do as he demands; otherwise the teasing might last even longer.

"That's a good boy," he smirks and obliges, instantly slamming balls-deep into me. I gasp, the preparation he has given me wasn't enough, but he doesn't even consider stopping, because he knows I can handle it. He pulls almost completely out just to dive in with even more power, and I gasp again, this time it's more pleasure than pain, or at least that's what I think, because the line between the two has blurred long ago.

He pounds in and out, biting my neck, whispering my name. I reach my hand to help myself come together with him, but he abruptly slaps it and takes matters into his own hands. It doesn't take him too long to be ready to come, but he intends to wait for me. It almost seems as he is doing it on purpose, jerking me off slowly, to build up more tension both for me and for himself. He stops when I start to feel the tingling down my spine and my balls, looking in my eyes.

"Ask for it."

"Please…" I beg again.

"What did I say about full sentences," He sighs, and I really admire his self-control. He prevents himself from coming the second time in just few minutes, and I barely understand how is that even possible.

"Randy, please… Let me come."

"You can come," He nods, thrusting in again and stroking me a few more times before I spill my load over his hand and my stomach. He comes too, when my muscles clench around his cock even tighter, with a loud deep groan, and I feel being filled up with his warm seed.

He sighs and kisses my neck softly, and then puts me back on the floor. My knees are about to give in, when he throws a towel at me walking away.

"Take a shower and get dressed into something _decent_." I can just hear him underlining the last word, he disapproves of my dressing manner, but it is completely out of discussion. "We're going to celebrate."

* * *

He orders our meals, mine too, he always does, because he knows what is best for me to eat at any given time of the day. He orders a glass of wine for himself, I frown at him and he frowns back.

"Just this one, babe," he says almost apologetically, and I know he will keep to that; he has quit his drinking since we got together, all for me, but occasionally he allows himself a glass of wine or whiskey. With my permission, of course.

I pick at my food quite hesitantly, I'm not exactly hungry, but when I raise my eyes from the plate, I meet his dissatisfied icy gaze.

"Eat everything that's on your plate," he orders, and I obey. He has issues with wasting food, this is how he was raised and trained in the military, and I respect that. I eat it all, and even though in the end I realize it is for my own benefit, it doesn't stop me from grimacing.

"Roll your eyes at me again and I'll make you regret it," it almost sounds threatening, but he smiles at me, not the usual dangerous evil smirk, but a true, open and warm smile, reserved only for me. He doesn't mean to be too demanding, he only wants what's best for me, at the same time allowing me to be myself. I smile back.

We get done with our meals and drinks, he pays the bill, gets up and punts my jacket on my shoulders. It is chilly outside, but I don't mind, as long as my hand is in his while we walk to his rental.

"Close your jacket," he says, and I want to roll my eyes again, but I feel his gaze fixed on my face, waiting for me to break his rule, and I reconsider the option. I pull the zipper up and see him grin in content. Even after all this time it still slightly surprising to him to see me obey to his every command, even when it sounds more like begging.

I don't mind letting my own life slip out of my control, because I know that it is in a good hand now. A tight iron grip in a soft velvet glove.

* * *

Thank you for reading, please let me know how was it! Any review is helpful and most appreciated :)


End file.
